


Whiskey, Cigarettes, & Outer Space

by grimtart



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Abuse, Hurt Rick, M/M, Self-Harm, Young Stan Pines, i came up with this while i was in the bathroom, i was washing my face and went "holy shit what if i write a short lil stanchez thing", implied stanchez?, just sayin...., or turned on....., rick definitely speaks spanish when he is frustrated or upset or angry, so here u go, stanchez, they just met so..........., young rick sanchez, young stanchez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 09:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5242880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimtart/pseuds/grimtart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan and Rick meet in a club, and get to know each other a little bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey, Cigarettes, & Outer Space

The crowd of the club had begun to thin out.

Rick had one hand buried in his pocket, the other hand up by his lips so that he could gnaw at nails painted black. It was cold, colder than it should have been on a typical November night, but he figured he would have to make do. It was a Saturday night, and time couldn't have been going any slower; Rick was beginning to get bored with the month's tendency to drag on, and on, and on, seemingly without end.

So, naturally, he found himself up against the wall of a nightclub that he didn't catch the name of, vision blurry and arms adjusting so that they could cross together. 

It was only eleven o' clock at night, and Rick Sanchez was drunker than a skunk and higher than the stratosphere. He had learned, now, that getting high first and drunk later would make things a little more worth it. Alcohol first would have cancelled the out the high. He learned that from one of the men he had been speaking with backstage after The Flesh Curtains's show (which, admittedly, was quite small compared to what Rick was used to). So, either the backstage man was correct, or this was some sort of weird-ass placebo effect.

Things were shaky, and this was the young man's way of coping. Being a mere twenty three, it seemed as though he had rushed into his life quite quickly...and all for the worse. His fiance made it clear that she was not coming back, and neither was Beth. She was part of his life, his world, and, also importantly, his apartment payments. But she was _actually_ going to leave Rick? And without any sort of crutch to lean on until he was on his feet without her? Things had spiraled out of control, and instead of turning the wheel to fix things, Rick let go of it and slipped like he was on black ice.

If he were completely honest, though, the worst part wasn't slipping. It was not having anything healthy to grab hold of and ease himself up with. His substitutes for coping were alcohol, drugs, and, occasionally, a switchblade that had come from the 1940's (an ancient habit of his that he could never seem to break away from). At the time, these things seemed undoubtedly logical, and Rick had no intentions of changing his mind about them. Not until he was ready, and not until his life was fixed. Brand new. No more hurting, no more trying to numb himself.

To be fair (or, not so fair), Rick had expected his partner to walk out of his life. They were young and stupid, and she had been saying that she was on her way out for over a year. Against his control, he had already lost so many feelings for her, feelings that he didn't even know were there in the first place. When she left, it was almost an instant fix. This, consequently, fucked Rick up even more; it made him think about whether he honestly loved her in the first place or not. It was probably her hatred for his wrongdoings that made him shut her out in the first place.

Which, unfortunately, were the wrongdoings that he was performing now.

The bottle blue haired Hispanic man, with a broad Greek nose and ebulliently under-the-influence hazel eyes, slumped a little more against the wall before pushing himself off of it and finding himself a drink. It took weaving through the crowd and a lot of the word "move," which was slurred horrifically, to finally reach the bar. After acquiring his drink, Rick drank it down hastily, trying to get as fucked up as he could before the place started to clear out. He had time to do so, and plenty of it, but now that his life was as fucked up as could be, it wasn't like things could get any worse. The music was slow and loud, and, as he sat down on one of the bar stools, Rick wasn't too sure whether he was swaying due to his body's condition or to the beat of the music.

He needed someone.

The Flesh Curtains had been the only band scheduled for that night, so the club was left with the muffled club speakers’ prerecorded, mixed tunes. Rick could barely make out the words that were being sung, beckoning for another drink as he felt his high creep down slowly, slowly, a little bit with every half moment. He dreaded the inevitable, and the way that he knew that he would have to come completely down at some point. It was like a game; if he were going to come down from the high, he would have to make himself too drunk to care. That was the way that things worked, and how they would continue to work. Rick didn’t enjoy changing his mind about things, and it was not often that he would.

The bartender replenished Rick’s hard liquor every several moments, as needed, and with each glass that was finished Rick could see his vision blurring more and more. This satisfied him, leaving him with a pleased, however unenthusiastic, look on his face. He was breathing slow, his head eventually lowering to lay against the bar between his arms. His alcohol glass stayed tucked inside of his cold palm. He recognized the music now, and it was something slow and dark-toned, leaving him in a bit more of a sway than he was in before.

The clock soon grew older, reading twelve o'seven, and Rick could feel his body beginning to weigh down with both intoxication and trepidation. What now? Was he supposed to go home, to an apartment that would, most probably, be ripped away from him before the month was over? Was he meant to walk through the front doorway and, upon taking off his shoes, be cursed with the grim reminder that he wasn’t going to have a front doorway to walk through before too much time would pass? No, Rick wanted to stay out as long as he could manage. He wanted to get unattached from the place.

Scanning the window now, Rick observed that it was raining outside. It only figured; he expected the cliche of rain to end his horrible night. Regrettably, he would have to walk home eventually, and in the wet weather, considering that he should have probably been home hours ago. It would have been for the best if he got there as quickly as possible (as much as he did not want to). He told himself to have one last drink and then head for home, as a taller, more muscular figure sat down in the bar stool next to his own. Rick minded his own business. He didn’t want to associate with anybody that night, and he was too drunk to be consistent or fluent in the first place. Waving the bartender over once more, he got himself his last serving of Scotch whiskey for the night, starting to drink hefty sips of the alcohol almost as quickly as it had been poured out.

“Hey. Don’t kill yourself, drink it slower huh?”

The words had come from the man next to Rick. Rick turned to the man, bringing the glass down slightly and squinting his hazel eyes marginally. “What the hell is it to you, pal?” he questioned after a short pause, voice slurred and even cracked a little bit. “Anyway. Wouldn’t make much of a difference to me, that’s for damn sure.” Laughing it off as though it were a joke, Rick shook his head, turning his attention away from the other man for a moment before returning it to him. This was eventful, and Rick was not sure what to do or say now, his free hand moving up to itch gently at one of his pierced ears.

The man next to Rick used his own hand to run through his short brown tufts of hair gently, his movements much less choppy than the young Sanchez’s. Unlike Rick, this man was sober, only visiting the club for soda and dancing. It was the best he could get these days, living in such a hectic neighborhood. Getting into trouble and being “the worst” was something he was used to doing, anyway, so being twenty two inside of a nightclub while his twin brother stayed home, tucked in and studying, was appropriate for himself.

The young brunet man rubbed both of his brown eyes very gently, and then he said, “I, I’m Stanley. Gonna sit here.” Stanley made himself comfortable in his bar stool, pallid hands requesting a Captain-Coke from the bartender. He received the drink rather quickly, and drank it slowly compared to Rick’s gluttonous alcohol consumption.

For a while, the silence between the two men was awkward. Rick had stopped requesting alcohol, and instead told the bartender that he would pay his tab by the end of the week (he probably would not end up paying). Stanley, a bit more relaxed than Rick, scanned the club slowly, noticing the lack of people for a late Saturday night. He was thinking about how odd it was that nobody was sticking around for long that night, however his thoughts were interrupted by Rick’s grumbling.

“In case you weren’t here for the band before,” Rick said, partway mumbling, “y-y’know, the _band_ that _I’m_ in. I’m Rick.” Once again, he moved both hands up to tuck his hair back and behind his ears, the shoulder length waves having been in his face a bit too much for his liking. The high was gone, and he was left with nothing but heavy inebriation.

“You, you know what else I am?” Rick continued, stretching his arms before hopping down from the bar stool. “I’m _leaving_. So, uh. Nice night, ‘Stanley.’” He hesitated, and the moment that he stood up straighter he felt light and heavy at the same time. His first step was a stumble, and then his head spun a million miles an hour, his thin hand immediately grasping onto the edge of the bar for balance. This was too much. He was far too drunk for even walking; this was both embarrassing and pleasing.

Stanley watched the other man struggle for only a moment before feeling a little guilty for doing so. He knew that the right thing to do would be helping him. So, with a sigh, he patted the bar with a large hand, letting the noise that he had made echo slightly before he said, “Dude, c’mon. Sit until you sober up a little, don’t be stupid. You’re gonna get killed if you go out there like this.” Taking a slow sip from his drink, which was not even halfway gone yet, Stanley relaxed in his stool, watching Rick’s reaction to his words. It came slowly, and then a little faster. Rick’s hand slowly loosened on the bar’s corner, the hazel of his eyes hardening slightly at such friendliness. What kind of game was Stanley playing? Rick’s expression was questioning as he straightened his posture the best that he could.

“ _Excuse_ me?” he asked sharply, not expecting a response; instead, he let himself grunt, the irritation that had begun to bubble in his chest simmering down to more of a confusion. He didn’t understand the motives of the other man, however instead of questioning him anymore, he decided to sit back down. Maybe he was right. Maybe sobering up before walking across busy streets was a smart idea. Getting hit by a car was not Rick’s idea of a good death. “Whatever.”

It was quiet between the two young men once again, Stanley’s fingers tapping against the bar gently as he tried to think of something to say. Quite frankly, he wanted to avoid saying the wrong things, in fear of hurting or offending Rick. At the same time, though, what was an appropriate question at the moment? Was he to ask how the weather was (it was rainy and gloomy, one of Stanley’s least favorite conditions)? The brunet set his glass down, the contents of it finally having reached the halfway-gone point, and he propped his head up with one hand. His other forearm laid casually in front of him against the bar. “Uh. So. What’s your story, are you okay man?”

Rick, still trying to situate comfortably in his seat, gave Stanley another squint. Really, what kind of game was he playing at? His hands were shaking now, he noticed, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he was too drunk to have control of them or if it was because he was nervous with the question he was asked. “Yeah, uh, is _anyone_  really okay?” The response was slightly uncivil, and Rick knew that even in his current state. So, he let out a groan, and decided to try again. “I’m fine. Everyone has their days, everyone feels like the shittiest piece of shit _sometime_. I’m _fine_. And I don’t have a story. Stories blow. Wh-What am I gonna do with a story? Reminisce about all the horrible things that happen in my equivalently horrible life? Jesus. Sorry if the answer wasn’t satisfactory, but I tell it how it is _Stanley_.” The drunk man’s hands were shaking a little more wildly now, and his head began to pound more than he had ever expected it to.

“Oh.” The simple phrase probably sounded insensitive, but it was not. Rather, it was unsure, leaving Stanley speechless and nervous to say much more than he already had. Although, he did remember that Rick was far past the comprehensive part of intoxication, thus leaving Rick to spout his feelings without much care. Without much ado, Stanley continued, “I mean. You got nothing? At all?” His phrasing was bordering rhetorical. He reached forward and took his glass of Captain-Coke into his hand again, sipping from it slowly.

Silently, Rick swayed a bit on his stool. He pressed his elbows to the surface of the bar and buried his hands in his hair, closing his eyes and releasing a long, long sigh. What a night this was. He just wanted to go home. “What about you, bud? Any _story_ comin’ out of, out of _you_? Or, or, or were you just asking me because I look like a desperate-to-talk idiot?” Wiping his lower lip, Rick let one of his hands leave his hair so that he could mimic the other’s pose, facing him with a raised brow. His curiosity was genuine; he really wanted to know what was up with this Stanley character.

“Me?” Stanley asked. He couldn’t help but laugh a little bit under his breath, looking away from Rick and shaking his head a bit. There was a whole lot to his own story. “Nah, not really. Got a brother-- _twin_ brother, Stanford--that’s all. If you want a story, well, here: let’s make a long story short.” Gnawing at the inside of his cheek, he shook his head again and made a wave-off with his hand. “I ruined his life. On accident--”

“Jesus,” Rick said, picking his head up a bit and giving Stanley a wide-eyed look, “on _accident_? What the hell did you even _do_?”

“Like I said, long story. I'd rather _avoid_ getting into detail.” Stanley shrugged, and he looked back at Rick again, eventually grinning a little bit at the eyes of the other man. Surely, Rick couldn’t have been too surprised--or, rather, he wouldn’t have been if he weren’t so drunk. “Anyway, I don’t really wanna focus on me. You look like a guy who needs his ass saved, so I figured we’d talk about you.”

“Tough figuring.”

“Yeah, uh, guess so.”

The clock was now pushing one o’clock in the morning. Rick’s hands scrubbed his face a bit roughly before he peered up at the window once more. It had stopped raining, which was good, leaving Rick with decent weather to walk home in. Rick shivered. It was cold, and his tank top was not keeping him warm by any means. He wasn’t as drunk as he was when he tried to leave the first time, but he wasn’t any more sober either, sliding slowly off of the bar stool again and burying his hands in his pockets. His thumbs hung out loosely.

“I should get going,” he mumbled, looking up at the other man with nebulous eyes. “Gotta, gotta get home and take care of...things”

Stanley nodded, looking back at the other for a couple of seconds before saying, “Yeah, ‘course.” Digging a slightly upholstered hand into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a five dollar bill and laid the almost crumpled piece of green next to his quarter filled beverage. He, too, lifted himself off of the stool and stood upon flat ground, starting for the exit of the club even before Rick had and beckoning him to follow with his hand. “Let me at least make sure you don’t die, okay? Halfway to your place. Then I’ll turn back for my house, ‘uh?”

Astonished (and a little humble), Rick followed Stanley in a bit of a totter, albeit his ability to walk had improved quite a bit since the first time he had tried to leave. “Yeah, uh, damn, you know, I think I’m pretty capable of…” Voice trailing off, the blue haired man let out a loud sigh of defeat, realizing that they were about to be stepping outside side by side now anyway. He would have to allow the assistance of Stanley, who was, perhaps, his newest friend.

The first step that Rick took outside was all right, but the second one was horrible; the bitter stab of cold, cold wind nagged immediately at his arms, stinging his skin and making it freeze up. He crossed his arms and shivered, staying like that for a moment before uncrossing his arms again, digging in his pants pockets’ for his box of cigarettes. Those were important, and he could use one about then.

The streets were about empty, now. There were wanderers here and there, but they were either high school rebels or equally rebellious young adults, searching for venues that were closed or streetwalkers that didn’t stay out in the cold. It was too late and too frigid for most anyone to be putting themselves outside for business. Stanley huddled himself inside of his jacket warmly, watching Rick with one brow raised. He was not sure whether to ask what he was doing or not.

Finally, Rick pulled out a box that was about the size of his palm. The cigarettes inside were almost stale, but not quite, Rick’s thin fingers pulling out one of the five left inside of the box. He brought it to his lips and, after fishing for a source of fire, lit it up, replacing all of the things he had taken out into their appropriate pockets. The cigarette tip shone red as Rick took a heavy drag, and it was several seconds after he pulled the stub away from his lips that he let out a thick breath of smoke. “This way,” he said, starting south down the sidewalk and waving for Stanley to follow, likewise to what Stanley had done while they were leaving the club.

Stanley followed Rick silently, eyeing at his cigarette before watching in front of himself.

“You want a story, _Stanley_?” Rick resumed, taking another inhalation of his cigarette. He breathed out heavily after a couple more seconds. “Here, have a story. I, I’m a twenty three year old dad, don’t even get to see the kid, and I can barely hold my band together let alone my life. Gonna lose my place, Stanley, if I don’t come up with money, a-and fast. Shit, Stanley, I live on my _own_ now. Doesn’t make _anything_ easier, though!” He flicked his cigarette harshly, to get the long stick of ash off of the tip, and then shook his head. “I literally _have_ no fucking story. It’s just, pathetic. Sometimes I wish I’d never gotten close, to anyone. Getting close to people causes problems and the world needs _less_ problems. Jesus Christ, I swear to fucking God that I’m about to-- _puto tirar el resto de mi_ vida _fuera mientras yo estoy en ello_.” Rick’s voice became much more frustrated, and he could tell that he was sobering up quickly. That didn’t mean that his intoxication was going to go away, rather the cold air was making him come to a little faster. Taking another slow drag of his coffin nail, he started to walk a little bit faster, shaking from the coldness of the wind now.

Oh, boy.

Rick turned onto the sidewalk at his right, in order to reach his destination. Stanley was at his side and did the same thing. They were both tight-lipped, then, Rick all out of words and Stanley not seeming to be able to find any. Stanley’s face heated up from nervousness, seeing as he did not know what to say in return to Rick’s “story,” and his hands nervously clasped together as they walked on and on, at Rick’s fast and wavy pace. He could not say that he understood what the Spanish phrase meant, but he tried his best to understand the English. Sooner or later, he found a couple of words, and crossed his arms over his chest before saying what was on his mind. “Hey, look. I’m sorry. But you’re kind of wrong. You _do_ have your own story, I mean, jeez. That--what you just said--sounds like a story to me. Hell, it’s more of a story than my own.”

“Yeah, uh huh.” Rick’s voice was passive.

“No,” Stanley insisted firmly, “it really is. Trust me, alright? I--Hey, are you cold?”

Rick finished his cigarette and flicked the butt of it to the ground, blowing the last bit of the smoke that lingered inside of his lungs at the stars. He stopped to put the butt out with the toe of his shoe before shaking his head obstinately. “No,” he declaimed flatly. “I’m just fine.” This was a lie, in several ways, and he knew that fully well. His hands moved to bury in his pockets again, folding his fingers to make two thin fists.

After some moments of consideration, Stanley exhaled softly, slipping his jacket off carefully. He waited before draping it over the smaller man’s shoulders, simply stating, “You’re the drunk one, not me. Figured you might be a lot colder than I am, so just borrow that.” Frankly, he was fine without a jacket, having been wearing a long sleeve shirt underneath it the entire time anyway. Rick’s reaction (which was confused eyes, a newly stiff posture, and a mousy lip-bite) made him chuckle a little bit.

“I...uh, thanks.” Rick let the jacket sit on his shoulders, and he did not dare touch it. He had too much pride for his own good at that point. His hands slowly came out of his pockets, and he looked up at Stanley before looking in front of himself again, the feeling of his arms and torso warming up leaving him a bit more relaxed than he had been beforehand. It was probably good that Stanley had escorted him home; Rick would have gotten too cold to keep walking if he had gone alone. This new friend of his was great.

He was just great.

Pride was eventually forgotten, and Rick moved his hands to gently tug the jacket a bit more snuggly around his shoulders, keeping his attenuated body as warm as possible. Soon, he found that he and Stanley had walked most of the way to his apartment. There were only a couple of blocks left. So, Rick stopped walking and said “Stan” in order to get the other man’s attention. Stanley stopped walking as well upon hearing his name, and the two looked at each other with welcoming gazes. Rick refused to grin up at the other, as much as he wanted to, and instead said, “We’re only, like, a minute away, so, uh. You head to your house, Stanley, and I, I’ll head to mine. Yeah? Sound like a plan, Stanley?”

With a nod, Stanley responded, “Yeah.” He lingered for just a second, trying to decide whether or not to request his jacket back. Rick still had a little more to walk, so he didn’t want him to freeze his drunk ass off halfway to his apartment and then stop walking completely.

Ah, what the hell? It was a jacket. He’d just have him bring it back the next time he saw him, if he ever would again.

“Bring my jacket back to me, punk,” Stanley continued, laughing a little bit with his joking words. “Tomorrow, this spot, eight at night. Won’t work any other time, either take it or leave it, crony.”

Rick broke into a large grin at this point. “Shit,” he said, “you’re not leaving me with much of a choice here, Stanley.” Secretly, he was flustered, nodding a little before taking one step closer to Stanley. “Better be here or this baby’s _mine_.” He grabbed the opening flaps of the jacket and held them out before folding them back over his torso, finding himself very comfy.

“Fair.”

“Damn right it’s fair.” Rick nodded again, and turned around. He started off down the sidewalk for his house in a small stumble, and waved at Stanley from where he was, the only goodbye coming from him being a shouty, “Lates.” He was too busy for anything exceedingly proper, shrinking a little bit in the jacket that he was wearing, excited to meet up with Stanley the next night (whether he would admit it or not). Under his breath, he mumbled, “ _Santa mierda_ , he’s hot.”

Stanley did not say a single thing in return. He simply smirked and waved back, although the other was walking away and not able to see. After a second, he turned the opposite direction and began walking for his own home, thinking a little too much about the other man that he had only just met.

Tomorrow, that spot, eight at night.

He’d definitely remember that.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Rick's Spanish probably wasn't all that fluent, but I speak very very little Spanish so I did my best. Sorry for any mistakes I made, if any!


End file.
